Home. Amelia, her lover, was alive and home.
Minerva repeated this to herself as she stood in the empty hallway, trying to rein-in the long-buried emotions that kept bubbling to the surface. She was not a woman who cried and she was not about start that now. The war was over, for Merlin's sake. Over. There was no need to become hysterical now. And she had known, of course, that Amelia had not been murdered. She'd kept that secret for almost three years. And tomorrow, the whole world would know as well: how they'd been in love for over thirty years; how spies for the Order had discovered the Death Eater's planned assassination and how Amelia had been diagnosed with breast cancer at the same time; how the Order executed a complicated ruse, creating false memories so that the damned murderers would think they got her; how Amelia had been granted Asylum in Johannesburg, and how she had just finished her last round of treatment so she could return home.
It had been a long week preparing Amelia's return. Minerva and the remaining Order members had met with what seemed like a whirlwind of witches and wizards from the DMLE for interviews. Then, Minerva had gone to the press. She and Amelia agreed, through a series of letters, that it would be far better if at least some of the media coverage was on their own terms. The question had arisen of whether they should "out" themselves in addition to explaining Amelia's "resurrection." After all that had happened, neither could bear the thought of living yet more of their lives in fear of being discovered. And they had agreed that it would be better for their public images to "take the potion in a single gulp," as it were, rather than draw out the whole affair.
And then Amelia, along with the three close protection aurors that would be staying with them for the next three weeks, had stepped out of the floo. And now Amelia was really, and truly home.
Minerva was glad the aurors were courteous enough to allow them a moment alone. She hadn't wanted them to witness their reacquainting. The embrace had been clawing and the kiss had been mostly teeth. There was nothing romantic in it. Minerva had been shocked by how Amelia's golden curls were replaced with blonde fuzz. Her cheeks were puffy and sallow, and her body looked and had felt fragile. She had reassured Minerva that the treatment had worse effects than the illness and that she was truly fine now, but to please forgive her because she really needed to lie down.
Minerva started as a chair grated against the tile floor in the kitchen, followed by the sound of footsteps coming into the hall.
"Headmistress," greeted Auror Bankole, before slipping his huge mass out the front door. None of the aurors, Bankole, Smith, or Petrou, had tried to chit-chat, for which Minerva was grateful. It was obvious they were trying not to step on her toes.
Speaking of which, Minerva kicked off her boots, leaving them in the closet in the hall, and slid her aching feet into her house slippers. She stopped by the kitchen to tell Auror Petrou where she has headed, then dragged herself up the stairs. As she peered through the open door of the bedroom, she hesitated for a moment about whether to go in. She had intended to merely check on Amelia, then rest on the chaise lounge in the library, but the sight of her lover curled where she had dreamt of her being for the past three years drew her in. She shucked off her outer robe and carefully lowered herself onto the bed, edging close to Amelia's turned back. Amelia's fuzzy head was like a baby's. The sight of it filled Minerva with tenderness. She could almost press her nose to it, she was lying so close, and she breathed in the smell of Amelia's skin—warm and musky, as she remembered, but also something sour and sickly.
Amelia shuddered. "That tickles."
"I thought you were asleep."
"Only barely."
Amelia rolled, first onto her back, then onto her other side to face Minerva. She placed her hand, palm down, on the white sheet between them. Minerva's eyes were wide as she brushed Amelia's pink nails with her fingertips, then traced her hand, wrist, arm, and shoulder. "You still have a cowlick," she said, as her hand settled on the back of Amelia's head.
"I'll probably look mad for a while."
"You'll look adorable."
Amelia huffed. "I can hardly remember what color it is."
"I remember."
Amelia cupped Minerva's cheek and traced the prominent cheekbone with her thumb. She pressed a careful kiss to Minerva's lips and reacquainted herself with her thin back and bony hip. Thinner now, she noticed guiltily, and bonier.
"You've had a bloody difficult time of it," said Amelia.
"I was in a battle. At Hogwarts." It felt odd for Minerva to say it aloud, as if, after all of the destruction, and funerals, and mourning, she didn't quite believe it herself. It was easier to talk in terms of blame. Saying, "Antonin Dolohov killed Remus Lupin," for example, was easier than saying, "I participated in what was almost the end of the world."
"I know you were," said Amelia.
"I killed people. I made my students kill people."
Are you disgusted by what I've done? Amelia recognized the unspoken question. "It was in defense," she almost said aloud, but she could read between the lines; the real issue at hand was Minerva's guilt. "I love you," she said instead, as she pulled Minerva to her and released her pinned hair with a whispered spell. Minerva was stiff and her sharp edges were difficult to hold. She kissed Minerva's forehead, cheek, the corner of her mouth, and finally her lips. Coaxing. Distracting. Soothing. Amelia flicked her tongue against Minerva's lips and Minerva opened her mouth to allow her to deepen the kiss.
As Minerva nestled against her chest, Amelia jerked—stung into sudden awareness of her disfigurement. She hated her body for betraying her when Minerva needed her most, and she hated herself for her vanity about her looks.
"Did I hurt you?"
"No." Amelia squeezed her eyes shut. "Just sensitive."
Minerva began to shift away but Amelia stopped her with a hand on her hip. "Please don't. You didn't hurt me." She felt Minerva settle back down but though her eyes were shut, she knew Minerva was watching her. The war was over, she realized, but that was only the beginning. And healing, she knew very well, could cause more suffering than illness.